Miracleborn Saga

Late afternoon air carried the crisp, dry breath of the nearing winter, as Henry stepped through the iron gate of Juno & Sons Garments, a humble workshop tucked along a cobblestone alley off East Prada's market. The scent of dyed fabrics, old wood, and iron needles floated faintly in the stillness. A small bronze bell above the door gave a polite chime as he entered.

Inside, spools of thread hung like ivy vines from ceiling beams. Racks of wool, silk, and leather were organized with the neat pride of decades-old craftsmanship. Elderly tailors worked silently at sewing benches, needles clicking, scissors sighing through cloth.

Henry walked slowly, fingertips brushing a line of folded scarves.

His coat still smelled faintly of smoke from the Vanguard's standoff days earlier. His boots had long scuffs from running through alleyways. His body bore faint aches. But it was the coldness on his neck that troubled him most today.

He stopped before a fabric roll—deep red, almost rust in tone, the kind of red that burned like embers under dusk light.

"This," he thought.

And beside it—buffalo leather, strong, earthy, weather-proof. The same kind his mother once used for his old winter gloves. He picked up both and brought them to the counter.

An old woman with spectacles half-slid down her nose looked up from her stitching.

"Custom piece?" she asked, raising a brow. "Or patchwork repair?"

"A new one," Henry said quietly. "Sweater. And… a scarf."

The woman nodded, setting her needle aside.

"You know the size?"

Henry reached into his coat and pulled out a small notebook, flipping to a torn, scribbled sketch. Measurements. Notes. Even a small, fading drawing of a scarf, ragged and creased at the corners.

The tailor paused, then nodded solemnly.

"That's a good fabric for warmth," she said, brushing the red roll. "Something personal?"

Henry lowered his eyes, voice tight.

"I lost my mother's scarf two winters ago. It… it was the last thing she made for me."

He didn't say how it had been caught in a gutter during a sudden storm. How he'd tried to chase it but slipped on the ice. How by the time he got up, it was gone—vanished in wind and street sludge.

It had taken two years for him to admit that he needed something new. Not to replace the warmth she gave him—but to stop freezing alone.

The woman nodded gently.

"Then let's make sure this one doesn't leave you."

Time passed.

Henry sat quietly on a bench outside, watching the grey sky swirl slowly like cooling ash. Children passed by in thick socks and woolen caps. A man sang from across the street in a minor key, strumming a frost-worn guitar.

Eventually, the door creaked open.

The tailor returned holding a bundled parcel—a hand-knitted sweater of red and charcoal weave, thick but breathable, along with a scarf of buffalo leather lined with cotton thread, wrapped and stitched into loops that wouldn't fly away in wind.

"The scarf's weighted on one end," she explained, handing it to him. "It'll hug your shoulder. It won't vanish like the last."

Henry held it to his chest, saying nothing for a long while.

Only when he pulled a small pouch of coin—exact change, 15 Gaus—from his coat and placed it on the counter, did he finally speak again.

"Thank you."

The tailor smiled gently.

"Don't lose it, boy. Not everything comes back in spring."

Henry stepped outside again, the new scarf coiled around his neck, the sweater warming his frame.

....

The wind howled across the rooftops of Prada, but this time—it didn't bite.

Henry stands alone beneath the twilight sky, on the rooftop of his apartment. The city of Prada hums below — faint lantern lights, distant church bells, smoke curling from chimneys. A soft wind brushes past him as he looks out over the horizon, scarf wrapped tight, eyes hollow but calm.

"Cruelty...

People speak of it like it's something that comes from monsters. Like it waits outside, tapping on our windows with bloodied fingers.

But that's not true, is it?

The cruelest things I've seen didn't have claws. They had hands—warm hands, soft smiles, people who meant well... people like me.

I blamed the world, once. The wars. The poverty. The empty chairs and the silent beds. I thought life was some merciless storm…

But storms don't choose who they destroy. I did.

I looked away when I should've stayed. I spoke when silence was needed. I tried to fix others when I couldn't even look at the cracks in myself.

The truth is… I was always looking for someone to blame.

And when I ran out of names, I found a mirror.

That's where it starts. That's where it ends.

But maybe… that's also where it heals.

I've learned something in the ruins, in the sleepless nights, with blood on my cuffs and ash on my boots—

Once I bought a book about how to make friends. When I opened it, there was only a mirror. Without cruelty, there is no mercy.

Without lies, truth has no shape.

Without shadows, light is just white noise.

And without loss, love is only convenience.

Maybe I'll never be good enough. Maybe I'll never fix what I broke.

But I can be honest. I can be present. I can carry this weight—

Not because I deserve to…

But because no one else should have to.

I'm not the light.

But I can be the one who walks through the dark…

…until others don't have to."

Henry leaned forward on the rooftop ledge, fingers gripping the cold stone. The city below whispered like a living creature—distant wheels creaking, muffled laughter, the crackle of wood-burning stoves. But it all felt so far away, like a play behind glass.

He thought of Zach's blood—still fresh in memory, warm as it soaked the promise of innocence. Of the child's hands, torn from her future. Of the diary that pulsed with something bigger than all of them. He had failed them. Not because he didn't act, but because he never believed he could.

People say cruelty is the enemy of man, he thought, but maybe it's just the mirror that stays when love turns away.

He closed his eyes.

"There was never a war between good and evil—only a conversation between cause and consequence. I've seen men pray and then kill. I've seen mothers lie to protect, and fathers destroy in the name of honor. Truth isn't a sword. It's a scalpel—small, sharp, and it only cuts what you dare to reveal."

There was a time he thought of fate as a guide. Now it felt like a locked door that only opened after you bled for it. Maybe life wasn't meant to be fair. Maybe it was designed to be heavy—so that only those willing to carry others could truly rise.

"I blamed the gods. I blamed the monsters. But the monsters were never outside. They were what I became when I turned away from pain… when I smiled instead of screamed. When I lied to protect someone too long, until the truth became unrecognizable."

His hands trembled slightly.

"I keep looking for something divine to fix all this. But divinity isn't mercy. It's responsibility. And maybe that's the closest thing to God I'll ever find—choosing to stay when leaving is easier, choosing to forgive when revenge feels righter."

He thought of Mimi, once thrown away like waste—how she survived. Of Nelson, who laughed through layers of masks. Of Andrew, who drank tea with death hiding behind his calm eyes. Of Roze, who bled light just to keep others from falling.

"They all carry something... just like me. Maybe that's humanity's punishment—and our redemption. That we survive the fire, and still find a reason to hold someone's hand. That we look into the abyss, and instead of falling, we plant flowers there."

The city lights flickered like pulsebeats in the dark.

He realized then—this world didn't need another savior. It needed witnesses. People who would look at the blood, the cracks, the failure... and still build a home from it.

"If I must suffer, let me suffer honestly. If I must fail, let me fail while protecting something fragile. And if I must die—then let me die not as a soldier or savior, but as a man who chose to try, even after the world stopped asking him to."

He took one last breath of the night air, filled with smoke, dust, and life. The kind of air that scars the lungs but proves you're still alive.

He turned from the ledge, shadows behind him, weight in his chest—but his feet moved forward.

And that was enough. For now.